


Love That Which They Defend

by Ilye



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (author is English and takes tea very seriously), (this surprises noone ever), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fingon is The Winter Soldier, Identity Issues, M/M, Maedhros is a sassy little shit, Maedhros is possessive over a war of all things, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Past Brainwashing, Tolkien saw some weird shit whilst he was fighting Hitler in the Battle of the Somme, featuring Gil-galad (son of Plot Hole), supersoldier serum is actually Elf Juice, tea improves everything, wormholes!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8070988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilye/pseuds/Ilye
Summary: The Asset dreamt of a faraway place, which was green and gold and silver and nothing like Brooklyn at all. He dreamt of a place with sunless skies and gunless wars and gods that walked the lands. He dreamt of ice that ground like bones under boots and a creeping, seeping darkness. He dreamt of gemstones and dragons, of wizards and monsters, of an untouched, uncharted world. He dreamt of death, and eternity.And meanwhile, the Elven-king sat upon his throne in his oceanside realm, the last that was fair and free between the mountains and the sea, and watched his courtiers waltz gracefully to the pentatones of a string quartet. He sighed. He really missed the Lindy Hop.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _“War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”_  
>  ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers
> 
>  
> 
> So, here's the Marvel/Tolkien crossover nobody ever asked for. Niche, I know, but I hope you'll enjoy it. If you want the odd bit of background to this crazy, I'm [on Tumblr here](http://ilye-elf.tumblr.com/).

 

There was movement in the snow and pain, explosive and bright white like everything else around. The world felt like knives and tasted like copper. High, high up, a train could be heard echoing between the sheer rock of the pass, ploughing unseen through the low-slung cloud. 

A blood-smeared wake, already pinking out beneath new-formed snowdrifts. Unknown words in a harsh, angry language, punctuating the stomp of boots that transcended nations. The grating of compacted snow wrapped around innards like tiny razors and yanked. It was a familiar, loathsome cold and the blackness it invited was welcome.

 

✵ ✪ ✵

 

Elsewhere, on the smoking ravages of a battlefield where the Elven-king’s bones had been crushed to mud in the mire of his blood and his guard lay massacred around him, someone stirred.

 

✵ ✪ ✵

 

_ Washington DC, Common Era 2012 _

 

The Asset wasn’t used to having a run for his money hand-to-hand. The Mission was quick, strong, a clever fighter. They were well matched and though The Asset was certain he would win in the end, this one might feel like an earned triumph instead of a straightforward chore.

Somehow, The Mission held The Asset’s favourite knife away from his throat. The knife split the van like a can opener. The Mission got The Asset by the waist. The Asset flipped away, turned as The Mission yanked his shield from the van door, engaged again. The shield’s rim slammed into the metal arm. Short-circuits popped up The Asset’s spine, met the crack of shield on skull. His ears rang – the world  _ span _ as The Mission wheeled him across the concrete.

Instinct curled him into a roll back to standing. It was too late to save the muzzle. He let it go and pivoted back, already primed, but there was no more fight.

The Mission stood frozen, gawping.

For the first time, The Asset got a good look at his opponent’s face. Spiking out from short, blonde hair, the Mission undoubtedly had pointed ears.

_ Just like me. _

They stared at each other. Something in The Asset's brain rattled loose and creaked open, shuddering through him like a heavy door forced on rusty hinges.

"Bucky?" said The Mission.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" said The Asset, and fled.

He didn’t stop running until he was back in his handlers’ keeping. They wiped the memory of The Mission from his brain with electric shocks through his cortex, but it didn’t erase the yearning ache of recognition from his solar plexus.

They hosed him down, fixed him up, polished him off, sent him out again. He took a shot through a wall and added another chapter to his ghost story.

The Mission fell from the flames in the sky and The Asset leapt after him. The Mission said he knew who The Asset was – but he didn't, he  _ couldn't _ know, not when The Asset didn't know himself. And yet The Asset knew that there were too few lives like theirs in this world to let this one expire, and so he saved The Mission's.

Then he disappeared to save his own.


	2. Home is behind, the world ahead

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, proclaimed the museum plaques next to The Asset's face, was supposed to have grown up in Brooklyn, New York. The Asset had been to Brooklyn, and he was highly doubtful that he’d ever grown up there. The Asset dreamt of a faraway place, which was green and gold and silver and nothing like Brooklyn at all. He dreamt of a place with sunless skies and gunless wars and gods that walked the lands. He dreamt of ice that ground like bones under boots and a creeping, seeping darkness. He dreamt of gemstones and dragons, of wizards and monsters, of an untouched, uncharted world. He dreamt of death, and eternity.

He awoke to the sense of an irrepressible doom, which was nothing to do with seven brainwashed decades brimming with torture and murder, and he knew that it was real.

No, The Asset had not grown up in Brooklyn. And yet, he knew The Mission.

This should not have been unreasonable. The Mission seemed to know plenty of people who had not grown up in Brooklyn. But there was a visceral familiarity to the man that The Asset just couldn’t explain. Some similarities were obvious, of course. They were alike in build, bionic arm aside; taller than most and broader. The Asset knew he healed fast, but The Mission healed faster. There was a canny, graceful strength in their movement, all quiet, vapour-light power. And then there were the ears, leaf-shaped and expressive in their slight mobility and clearly  _ not human _ .

But despite their blatant oddnesses that that a set them apart as a pair, it wasn't The Asset's brain that recognised The Mission. 

It was his soul.

Something simmered hot inside The Mission, something scrappy and fair and true that felt the same as the scalding, frustrated confusion that roiled behind The Asset’s breastbone. And, like The Asset, The Mission was divided, also supposed to be two people. Unlike The Asset, he seemed to know who both Steve Rogers and Captain America were and integrated them well. Most of the time, anyway – sometimes, in his nightly observations from a rooftop across the street, The Asset would catch Steve Rogers staring forlornly at the pages of a large, flat book with a pencil clutched impotently between his big fingers and Captain America discarded in the room’s vignetted corners. Other times, he would squint through the windows of an empty gym and see Captain America wrapping his knuckles for a bout with the punching bag whilst Steve Rogers lingered quietly in the wings.

The longer The Asset followed The Mission, the more his brain caught up with his soul and learned to recognise this unknown, familiar person. He learned that The Mission kept insisting The Asset’s name was  _ Bucky _ , when the silly fragile plaques in the museum and anyone else official proclaimed him as  _ Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes _ . The Asset had no idea who those people were, except that somehow they were one and the same and he was neither of them. 

See, it wasn't that The Asset didn't know who he was, so much as he didn't know who he was supposed to be. He knew he wasn't The Mission’s Bucky person, or James Buchanan Barnes, but he wasn't supposed to be The Winter Soldier, either.

The knowledge was there, but like a bar of wet soap – barely within reach, but too slippery to hold on to. Hydra’s brainwashing was only ever temporary – that was why they'd wiped him and wiped him and wiped him – but time wore on and, as much as The Asset worked himself into a lather over it, he could remember nothing of himself as James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. But The Mission kept going, a dogged, nauseating persistence that ate away at The Asset because – well, what if The Mission was right after all? What if The Asset really did know The Mission from before the war, like the museum plaques said? What if The Mission could tell The Asset something, anything, that might rattle the memories loose?

So at last, sick of living as a ghost that that didn't even recognise itself, The Asset decided to come in from the cold and let himself be found. 

 

✵ ✪ ✵

 

“What do you need?” Steve Rogers asked once he’d stopped gaping and asking stupid questions and finally accepted that The Asset was sitting on his sofa. Captain America lingered at the fringes, just in case The Asset reneged on his apology and promise never to shoot him again, but Steve Rogers was driving here. “Tell me – are you hurt? Hungry? Do you want a shower, or –”

“I need,” said The Asset carefully and in the American accent he’d been programmed with, “you to tell me why I know you.”

“Oh,” said Steve Rogers, and sat down on the coffee table in front of The Asset with an excess of confused eyebrows and sad eyes. “You don't remember. That –" He swallowed hard. "That’s okay, if you don’t remember. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. We grew up together in–”

“That is not my name. I’m not that person.”

The only thing that gave away Steve Rogers’ flinch was the momentary twitch of his eyebrows together, before his face smoothed into smiling acceptance. Something inside The Asset’s brain marvelled at the fact that he cared.

“Okay,” said Steve Rogers, calmly, assured, like he hadn’t just stuck gauze across a wound. “That’s okay. Then what  _ is _ your name?”

Oh. The Asset had hoped, stupidly, that question wouldn’t come up. He glanced away, unsure if he was pouting because he didn’t want to answer the question, or because he  _ couldn’t _ .

“I… I don’t know. I don’t remember who I am – but I  _ do _ know I'm _ not him _ . I don’t know how. I shouldn’t know you. But I do.”

He pressed his flesh hand to that spot under his breastbone, where it felt like someone tugging a knot through a ball of yarn. The way Steve Rogers reached out looked instinctive and his hand was halfway to The Asset’s before he stopped himself mid-air. The Asset looked down, twisted his wrist and opened his palm upwards because, well, what harm could it do? Steve Rogers smiled all of a sudden, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and his hand came to rest in The Asset’s. 

Underneath Captain America’s rough skin and bruised knuckles and tough calluses it was warm and strong and kind, just like the rest of Steve Rogers. The Asset’s breath snagged in his lungs and  _ damn _ , maybe this wasn’t such a good idea because suddenly his pulse was roaring in his ears and his stomach had soured and was clawing its way up his throat. He clenched his eyes shut against a sudden vertiginous lurch and flinched away from the panic snapping at his heels like an attack dog. He'd expected violence; pain he knew, pain he could manage. But instead he found himself facing off with kindness, something Steve Rogers had in spades, and that threw The Asset for a loop because he had no idea how handle it. 

“Hey,” said Steve Rogers, letting go of The Asset’s hand, “hey, it’s all right. We can figure that out in its own time.” The coffee table creaked with a shift of his weight. “Just take a deep breath for me, okay?”

It was an order, more than a question. Orders The Asset could do. He took the deep breath. His stomach started to retreat back to its rightful place. When he cracked his eyes open again, Steve Rogers was sitting further away. For a moment, they watched each other, The Asset feeling rattled and wild and Steve Rogers still wearing that same expression of calm assurance that, for reasons he couldn’t even  _ start _ to fathom, made The Asset want to trust him. 

“How about I make us a drink?” Steve Rogers offered, and stood without waiting for an answer. The Asset relaxed a fraction, recognising it for the out that it was and knowing right then that he wouldn’t need to take it. He  _ was  _ safe here. Good instincts.

Steve Rogers walked through to the kitchen, then stopped on the threshold. He half-turned, mouth open and looking as though he were about to ask a question, but then his brain seemed to catch up and his expression shifted.

“Tell me if you’d prefer tea or coffee.”

The Asset relaxed again, enough that the sofa cushions rustled. “Tea,” he said, then as an afterthought, more to stall any further questions than because he really cared what he drank, “Milk, no sugar.”

Steve Rogers nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving The Asset alone and fighting the urge to curl into the sofa cushions and hide there. Now that he’d let his guard down, he could feel the adrenaline throbbing out of him like blood from a cut artery and revealing the drone of exhaustion beneath. This whole process of being found was far harder than he'd anticipated. Somehow, being around Steve Rogers was niggling emotions out of him, which meant his body kept doing unpleasant things he was unused to: he’d catch his breath, or his stomach would lurch, or his cheeks would burn, or his eyes would sting, and he had no idea how to interpret their meaning. 

But as for his brain – well, that was just as useless, still stubbornly unresponsive to his nagging it for memories. Which, considering The Asset was only here on behalf of his brain, did not seem like a fair exchange.

He treated himself to a deep sigh and hung his head, just for a moment, whilst the quiet sounds of tea-making percolated through from the kitchen. He only looked up again when Steve Rogers’ footsteps approached and found a steaming mug in front of his face. 

“Here, drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”

Another order. The Asset took the mug in his metal hand, sceptical that a hot drink could do anything of the sort. He closed his flesh hand around it too, letting the warmth seep through the china and into his bones as he stared at the mug for a moment. It was painted bright yellow and blue; exactly the colours that he associated with Steve Rogers. 

_ Prophetic _ . 

He took a sip and  _ damn _ , maybe he shouldn’t have disregarded the mug’s contents so easily! He realised his face must have given him away, because Steve Rogers chuckled quietly.

“Good, isn’t it? I have an English friend who taught me how to make tea properly. They take it very seriously over there.”

“Carter.” A bald statement, accompanied by flashes of a slight woman with dark hair and red lips and a firm manner. 

Now it was Steve Rogers’ turn to look surprised. “Yeah,” he said, and there again was that twitch of his eyebrows that made The Asset’s gut twinge. “Peggy, yeah. You…?”

“The museum,” The Asset supplied. “Been a couple of times. Saw pictures of you with her.” He hesitated, licked his lips. “Saw pictures of us, too. It's – it’s my face there, but it's not me.” 

He had no words to explain the empty feeling of how he just didn't  _ belong,  _ how he was in the wrong place, the wrong time, and Steve Rogers was the only thing he recognised, even though he shouldn't. He'd cut his hair short like in the museum pictures after the last visit, hoping it might trick his brain into recognising his face and putting a name to it. In fact it had done the opposite, the face in the mirror so startlingly unfamiliar that he'd lashed out and destroyed it so it couldn't stare and mock him. Steve Rogers’ eyes flicked down to The Asset’s knuckles, peaked like pale mountains around the mug’s circumference. They’d healed now, but it was like Steve Rogers could tell that The Asset put his flesh fist through the mirror in frustration over this very issue just a few days ago.

“I'm lost,” he admitted, and felt at once terrified and jubilantly free. “I – I need help and I don’t understand this world. I don't know why, whether it's Hydra in my head again or – I can't go back to them. I know – I'm not supposed to be The Winter Soldier. I’m not your Bucky, so you don’t owe me anything. And I’m sorry I tried to kill you. But – I just don’t know where else to go.”

He looked up. Steve Rogers’ eyes were still soft, his half-smile still kind, but when he spoke his voice was steely with Captain America.

“Listen to me,” he said, and The Asset did because it was another order. “Maybe you’re right, and maybe I don’t really know you – but that doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t make a difference if I’d never known you from Adam. You’ve had more’n enough shit happen to you and that stops  _ now _ . Noone’s gonna bully you any more, not on my watch.”

He reached out again and this time, when his hand settled gently on The Asset’s right shoulder, it felt like an anchor that he never wanted to shake off.

“You’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

✵ ✪ ✵

 

In the end, The Asset let them call him Bucky. It was clearly a habit that Steve Rogers couldn’t break – when he was distracted, he’d ask if Bucky wanted a cup of tea, or if Bucky could hand Steve something across the kitchen. The first few times it happened Steve looked distraught, almost laughably so – except The Asset never laughed, because he realised how much Steve missed the face that looked like The Asset’s in the frame next to his bed. It made no difference to The Asset; he had an equal lack of recognition to the name  _ Bucky _ as he did everything else, so he might as well make life for Steve as easy as he could.

It was the least The Asset could do after the way Steve took to helping him like it was a full-time job. Steve made all The Asset's meals, because The Asset had no idea what these foods were or where they came from and was certain he’d never been inside a grocery store in his life. Steve provided The Asset with clothes that fitted and didn’t look like a uniform, or armour, or like they’d been lived in well beyond their useful life. Steve stayed up at night when The Asset became too rattled to sleep, offering quiet company when The Asset felt lost and anchorless or a wee-hours walk when the only other option was to pace the apartment like a big cat that didn’t understand why it was caged up.

When Steve had to go away for a while – on  _ missions _ , The Asset knew, though that word was never used – he would leave food and entertainment and check in as often as he was able. And when Steve was around, and The Asset grew ravenous for something inexplicable that was more fundamental than even food and water, Steve would take them both on his bike to a place many leagues beyond the city, where the only lights shone out of the sky and the ever-present electrical hum that prickled in The Asset's ears was hushed. The Asset listened to the groans of the trees and the whispers of the grass and drank their fresh greenness into his soul, and was soothed. 

To start with Steve would wander off on their excursions, as though he felt the need to give The Asset some space. After The Asset had made it clear that he didn’t mind the company, Steve would stretch out next to him in the grass, either gazing silently up at the stars or adding to nature’s conversation with the whisper of chalk on black sugar paper under the moonlight. 

One evening they were lying together beside the Harley with their shoulders almost touching, close enough that The Asset could feel the heat of Steve’s body through the sparse inches between them. Something inside him shifted, like an engine part clunking into place; a muscle memory, not something his brain remembered, but his  _ body _ .

Perhaps he was going about this all wrong.

“I have dreams,” said The Asset quietly. “Have done since I left Hydra.”

Steve made a quiet sound of interest and shifted onto his side so he was looking at The Asset. 

“What are they about?”

The Asset took a deep breath, stared straight ahead into the Milky Way, and tried to speak without thinking too hard about it.

“They’re not  _ about _ anything, really. It’s more a feeling, like an atmosphere, like – like my soul’s remembering something even if my brain isn’t. Ugh!” He flung his metal arm up so his forearm covered his eyes. “Damn it, this isn’t making any sense.”

There was a soft huff that wasn’t quite a laugh – then the cybernetics fired to report his metal fingers were being squeezed together, and moonlight flashed on steel as Steve lifted The Asset’s arm away from his face again. 

“Go on,” Steve murmured, the words an order even if the tone wasn’t. The Asset didn’t look at him, but returned the grip on his hand as he delved for the right words.

“It feels like  _ this _ ,” he managed eventually, gesturing to the wilderness around them with his free hand. “Civilised, but primitive.  _ Old _ . Wise. Powerful, like the world talks to you as much as you talk to it. It makes me feel… there’s a soreness inside me, but it isn’t anything physical. It’s like how I think other people get memories. Like I’m missing something – some _ one _ , and I’m being missed… like I’m fighting for something and knowing I’m losing and winning all at the same time.”

He rolled his head to the side. It was the first time he’d seen Steve’s expression when the sad eyebrow twitch was allowed to develop fully, and it made his stomach feel like a crumpled ball of paper. This time, though, Steve made no attempt to hide whatever sorrow he was feeling and just shrugged.

“Perhaps they’re from a different time or place,” he said softly, “but my dreams are of much the same things.”

The Asset shifted so that he was also lying on his side, face-to-face with Steve and their hands clasped in-between them.

“Tell me,” he urged, because from the look on Steve’s face he’d never told anybody and The Asset knew it wasn’t a comfortable thing to carry alone.

Steve shrugged and cast his eyes back towards the sky. “I'm not sure what you're expecting to hear. If you didn't know me before the war, it won't help you.”

“It’s not all about me, you know,” said The Asset. “Will it help  _ you _ ?”

Steve didn’t answer. The Asset didn’t push him. Nature filled the silence. It must have been minutes before the grass rustled with Steve’s heavy exhale, and he finally began to speak.

“I hope,” he said, “that you eventually get your memories back, and that in them you’ve got someone who was dumb enough to love you for every stupid thing that you were. I hope you know what it’s like to be around a person who understood that there were just some fights you had to have, and didn’t try to talk you down – never said ‘I told you so’ when you were on your knees at the end, just picked you up and dusted you off and loved you because of it. They didn’t care what kind of monster the world turned you into, or what kind of mask you had to wear for the world because of it, because they knew everything you were underneath it, before it happened – they saw something worthwhile in you when nobody else did. I hope you remember someone who –” A heartbeat’s pause and a wet swallow, “who trusted you enough to lay their life on the line and lose it at your say-so. And I hope you never have to know what it’s like to have that happen, either.”

“He sounds like he was a great person,” said The Asset eventually, when Steve’s voice tailed off into the conversation of the landscape around them. There was a beat, then,

“He was,” Steve replied, and if his voice was thick and only a little cracked, well, The Asset and the darkness would keep his secret between them.

 

✵ ✪ ✵

 

“Holy shit, it’s Bucky Barnes!”

The Asset glanced at Steve, who somehow managed to give an innocent shrug at the same time as looking guilty.

“Tony, we’ve spoken about this. We are moving in – this can’t be a surprise to you.”

“Well, it was a bit of a tall tale you span to us, Cap,” Tony Stark returned. “Wasn’t prepared to go all-in till I saw your boy for myself.” He tossed the remains of whatever stimulant occupied his paper cup down his throat, launched the cup into the waste bin, and stuck out his hand into The Asset’s personal space. 

“Tony Stark, Iron Man, all-round generous genius who is  _ very _ interested in that hardware you’ve got there.”

The Asset smiled with just enough teeth to make it a threat. “A veritable pleasure, sir,” he forced out, wishing as he shook Tony Stark’s hand that his right arm were the metal one so he could accidentally-on-purpose do some damage.

To his astonishment, Tony Stark knocked his head back and guffawed right in The Asset’s face. 

“Jeez, he speaks like Thor! Where’s your accent, Brooklyn? Thought you were New York born and bred like Capsicle here?”

Oh no. He’d forgotten the accent they’d programmed him with. The Asset had no idea who  _ Thor _ was, or whether it was of consequence that they spoke alike, but he did know that extra questions weren’t going to help the situation. He took a deep breath against impending panic and was frantically scrabbling around his brain for a reply when Steve’s hand landed on his shoulder and rooted him back in the moment.

“Brainwashing,” menaced Captain America, whilst Steve Rogers kept his hand on The Asset’s shoulder. “We’ve been over this, Tony – let’s dial it down a notch, yeah? We just want to get settled in and make ourselves at home.”

“Right, right.” Tony Stark’s eyes oscillated between Steve and The Asset. “Right. Okay, yeah, sure – your stuff’s being brought up, the removal guys are  _ excellent _ . You’ve got suites next to each other, hope that’s okay – we figured it would be since you’ve been in that shoebox together for months –”

His hand waved through the air between himself and The Asset, inches away from the cybernetic shoulder. The Asset waited, in the same way a shark waits for a small fish to swim into its mouth. Tony Stark swallowed and snatched his hand away, pinching at his goatee before shoving it in his pocket. 

So, it’s right this way. Let’s see where you’ll be living.”

 

✵ ✪ ✵

 

“You gonna be okay here?” Steve asked later, once they’d found their stuff boxed up in their suites and taken a few minutes to themselves.

“Depends,” said The Asset as he rummaged through his only box of stuff. “Are they all as obnoxious as Stark?”

“No, only Tony.” Steve pushed away from where he’d been hovering against the doorframe and wandered into The Asset’s small lounge area. “You get used to him. His heart’s in the right place, but his mouth works faster than his brain a lot of the time, which is saying something because the guy’s a genius.”

The Asset paused and squinted at him from behind the box. “Thanks for the anatomy lesson, there.”

Steve blinked, then his eyes crinkled at the corners and his laughter was echoing off the empty walls. The Asset just rolled his eyes and went back to cataloging his possessions.

“Who knew you’re a funny guy?” said Steve once he’d caught his breath. The Asset shrugged.

“Not me,” he replied, turning away to set his four books on the shelf behind the dining table. “Can’t even remember my own name, let alone my personality.”

Steve stepped close enough to bump their shoulders amicably together. “Well, it seems like you’re growing one – hey!” That as he caught The Asset’s metal elbow in the ribs, “And I might yet regret nurturing it!”

The Asset tossed a smirk over his shoulder and returned to setting his stuff out on the shelf.

“Seriously, Buck,” Steve said, and he sounded as much now, “if you decide you’re not going to like it here, we don’t have to stay. I’m not obligated to these guys and I can make it work by living outside the facility.”

The Asset sent the empty box sailing into a corner of the room and turned so they were facing. “You’re already putting yourself out for me, Steve, and you’ve known me – how long, a few months? You’re not exactly obligated to me, either, especially since I tried to kill you – no,” he cut off Steve’s impending protest, “I will  _ not _ let you forget that.”

“I’m not expecting you to,” Steve managed to get in. “But I won’t let you use it as a stick to beat yourself with, either. Hydra made you do some dreadful things, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve help.”

“Steve, you and Sam have been an  _ enormous _ help, beyond anything I could have asked for. All I’m saying is that I don’t want to make your life any more difficult than it needs to be. Things have changed with the team and it’s easiest for you to live here in the facility, so I’ll cope.” He spread his hands and grinned. “Look at me – I haven’t had a single panic attack since I’ve been here!”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “If you tell me you’ve been through worse, I swear…”

“It’s a coping mechanism. Live with it.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d bickered over The Asset’s gallows humour. Steve let it go. “Fine. I just need you to know that if being here makes you unhappy then we don’t have to stay. I made you a promise – and besides…” There was that eyebrow twitch again. “Friends put themselves out for each other.”

“Yeah, well.” The Asset reached out and pushed at one of those ridiculous shoulders. “I appreciate it, but don’t go putting yourself too far out, huh? You might not like this personality so much once it’s finished growing.”

“Eh,” Steve shot back, twinkling, “it’s tolerable so far. Come on, the others are in the rec room. You can find out for yourself how awful they are.”

The rec room turned out to have one wall that was mostly screen and a ceiling that was mostly speakers. There was a cluster of people in front of the screen-wall, clutching strange plastic objects in their hands and watching cartoon characters navigate a racing track in small motored vehicles.

“Guys!” Captain America was exceptionally good at commending attention, The Asset would give him that. The screen-wall froze and all heads turned towards the door. Captain America smiled. 

“Hey. This is Bucky – like I mentioned before, he’s going to be staying here, but not on active duty.” He glanced at The Asset, then back to the group spread around the room. “So we’ve got Natasha, Clint, Wanda, Tony you’ve met… I take it the others are on the job somewhere?”

“Talking to Fury about training,” the one called Natasha supplied. She was staring at The Asset – had been since he’d entered the room, in fact. Her expression gave nothing away, but The Asset could tell she was hiding plenty. 

“Great.” Steve clapped The Asset on the shoulder and stole his attention back. “Sam’s here somewhere and I expect you’ll meet the others when they show up for movie night later.”

The Asset lifted an eyebrow. “Movie night?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” That came from the man called Clint, who had sidled up beside The Asset when he thought he wasn’t being noticed. The Asset had heard him coming from right across the room, but he had to give the man’s skills credit where it was due, especially for the way he covered up his surprise when The Asset suddenly turned and gave him a toothy grin. Clint just smiled back.

“No hidden agenda. We literally just watch a movie. Hey, you know how to play Mario Kart?” 

The Asset shook his head. Clint’s smile widened and he held out one of the the plastic devices that appeared to be linked to the cartoon characters on the screen-wall.

“That’s cool. I’ll show you.”

And that was that.

 

✵ ✪ ✵

 

It was a culture shock, to say the least – but not necessarily an unwelcome one. He’d grown used to the relative quiet and anonymity of Steve’s Brooklyn apartment, but it was a surprise to realise that he enjoyed having people around him too, especially after it was made clear that he had the option of escaping to the peace of his suite if it got too much. 

Perhaps he’d been a sociable person before Hydra. Interesting development.

The rest of Steve’s teammates were better behaved than Tony Stark, and less invasive. They must have stuck to whatever briefing Steve gave them, because there were no awkward comments about his arm or his ears or his history, few questions of any kind that didn’t require a yes/no answer, and heartfelt attempts to explain any cultural aspects that passed him by (which was to say: most of them).

The Asset had no doubt there  _ had  _ been questions when they learned he was joining them in the facility. He had no idea what kind of conversations Steve – or more likely, Captain America – must have had to get The Asset inside. In his opinion The Avengers  _ should _ have been up in arms at the suggestion they take a confused, murderous, ex-Hydra brainwashee with no back-story into their midst. But they had done so, laughing easily, calling him Bucky and making him feel welcome.

It may have all been a front, and it didn’t mean he trusted them, but The Asset was glad everyone was making an effort. He was tired of fighting.

Movie night, as Clint had promised, did not appear to have a hidden agenda. Clint had chosen the movie, ostensibly to explain why everyone called him  _ Legolas _ , but it was clear to The Asset that the guy genuinely loved the story. And so that was how everyone came to be laid out across various pieces of furniture in front of the screen-wall, ninety minutes into  _ The Fellowship of the Ring _ and at the bottom of huge tubs of popcorn, with Aragorn and Arwen having a soppy moment in Sindarin underneath the trees and their language making The Asset’s ear-tips furl.

“Is he meant to be speaking it so badly?” he muttered, glaring at the screen-wall. “His pronunciation is dreadful, and that grammar is not correct.”

“Oh my  _ god _ , Barnes is a nerd!” 

The Asset snatched the incoming pillow-ballistic out of the air and threw it back at Tony without taking his eyes off the movie. Tony clawed the pillow away from his face, spluttering. “Nerd alert! Nerd alert! I wasn’t warned about this!”

“What use did Hydra have for fictional languages?” Natasha mused. She aimed a piece of popcorn at The Asset to get his attention. “Even  _ I _ don’t speak Elvish.”

He caught the popcorn and tossed into his mouth with barely a sideways glance at her. “That’s because you’re not an Elf.”

“Oh, and you are?” Tony snorted. The Asset turned to face him, and suddenly there was a warm solidity in his chest because he’d never been surer of anything in his life.

“Yes.”

Silence beat through the room. The Asset realised that the movie was paused, as though even FRIDAY were listening, waiting. He squared his shoulders and this time, spoke like a king addressing an audience.

“I’m an Elf. Steve, too.”

Tony made a choked noise, but it wasn’t clear whether that was because he was stifling a laugh or because Steve had anticipated a windbag comment and elbowed him. 

The Asset lifted his chin and waited magnanimously.

It was Steve who broke the silence. “What do you mean, we’re Elves?” he said, as calmly and vaguely amused as if he’d been asked to solve a moderately difficult algebra problem for fun. 

“I mean: we are not human,” The Asset replied. “Another species.” He took a moment to contemplate the essence of being Elven, then another to find the words for it. “We’re similar to humans, but different. The ears, they are obvious, but we are taller, faster, stronger, tougher. Our bodies will not wear out like humans’, although our spirits may weary. We are closer to the energies of the natural world than humans, and the power of our minds can exceed human understanding.”

“Bucky,” Steve said softly. He looked sad for reasons The Asset couldn’t comprehend. “I was born a human. My ma, she died of natural causes.”

“And what of your father?”

Steve shrugged. “I never really knew him. He died in the war.”

“Then you could be Peredhel.” The word came to him as easily as the grip of a gun. Steve frowned.

“What’s–”

“Half-elven,” Clint supplied. The Asset’s peripheral vision registered a gesture towards the paused movie frame on the screen-wall. “Like Elrond and Arwen.”

“Oh,” said Steve, very gently now, “no, Buck, it was the serum that changed me – changed us both. Zola gave you yours and Erskine gave me mine. It made our ears this shape and it made my body like it is now. I was tiny before, and sick – you don’t remember me telling you this?”

“You know that wasn’t me,” The Asset snapped back.  “I never had any serum. You know I’m not your Bucky. Morgoth’s bollocks, I’m an  _ Elf _ – is that really so hard to believe?”

He took a deep breath and scanned the faces watching him. From their expressions, it  _ was _ pretty hard to believe. In the background, The Asset heard Tony mutter something to FRIDAY about recording the phrase  _ Morgoth’s bollocks _ . Damn it, that one had slipped out. How in The Pit was he going to explain this one?

“Steve,” he tried, forcing down his frustration and doing his best to replace it with reason. Steve gazed back in forlorn confusion from the far end of the sofa. “We have talked about this. I do know you, but not in the way you think I do. Before you became my mission, I'd never met you. I know that – I don't know much, but I know  _ that.  _ But still, that day on the bridge, I  _ knew _ you, somewhere deeper down." He set his flesh hand just below his sternum, where his insides were giving a strange, hot twist. "I don't know if it's because we're both immortal or something else, but I–"

"Immortal?" Steve cut in. "You think I'm..." He stared for a moment, before he dropped his head and kneaded the heels of both hands into his eye sockets. 

"Oh, fine. Make this all about you," The Asset remarked with a dryness that surprised himself. Steve took his hands away from his face and looked up, glaring through his eyelashes. 

“All right, then.” Natasha broke the stunned silence, calm and practical. “So you’re not Bucky. Clearly we’ve got this wrong. What should we be calling you? What is your Elven name?”

The Asset shut his mouth with a snap of his teeth. Of course she’d call his bluff. He glared at her, but she just stared impassively back until he was left with no choice but to admit it. He sighed.

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to remember, but I can’t.”

“Here!” Clint’s voice came from The Asset’s left-hand side. The Asset jumped and the metal arm recalibrated like a dog fluffing its hackles. Clint took a step backwards, eyes wide.

“Sorry, I just –” He held out a stack of books. “These might help.”

“Clint…” Captain America warned, but The Asset ignored him and took the books. It wasn’t a stupid idea – if he recognised the language in the movie then why shouldn’t it be in a book as well?

“ _ The Silmarillion _ ,” he read from the cover of the topmost book. “ _ Of the Silmarils _ .”

“Yeah,” Clint began. “It’s the back-story from  _ Lord of the Rings _ , and…” He tailed off – or perhaps The Asset just zoned him out, because he’d flipped the book open and suddenly it was like his heart was in his ears.

Names. He recognised them. All of them. Finwë and Fëanor and Melkor and Maedhros and Finrod and Galadriel and – 

“Fingon. That’s me.” He stared at the book, but now the words had blurred into invisibility as instead he found himself reading from the pages of his own memory. “I – I was High King. I died.”

“You died?”

He didn’t know who’d asked the question. There was a hand on his wrist and background voices, but he couldn’t focus on them, only on the world that now filled his head. 

“There was a battle. There was fire…” He shook his head, rattled away from the nagging snatches of screams and clashing blades, and dragged his focus back to the book in his hands. “I was the son of Fingolfin and Anairë. My father, he died too, but my mother…” He closed his eyes and felt a different kind of emptiness where the memory shaped like each of his parents lay. “She did not make the journey from Valinor with us. She is likely still alive.”

The background noise grew louder, mixing with memories and stirring chaos inside his head. He closed his eyes, screwed his face up, used his free hand to block his ear – 

“ _ Guys! _ ”

That was Clint, loud enough that everyone else fell quiet. The Asset – no,  _ Fingon _ , he was Fingon – opened his eyes.

“ _ Thank you _ ,” Clint went on, sounding unreasonably reasonable. It was his hand on Fingon’s wrist. “Thor is a god who visits us from another dimension via rainbow. I have been mind-controlled by a sorcerer who came through a wormhole with an army of  _ frost giants _ .” He gestured to where Fingon clutched the book in his hands like it were a real Silmaril. “How is this so hard to believe?”

Silence again, this time slightly ashamed. Fingon looked around at the confused faces and felt his ear-tips wilt. Valar, he’d really done it now.

“There are family trees at the end, you know,” Clint prompted, ignoring the awkwardness that screamed through the room. “See if that helps any.”

He didn’t really give Fingon a choice and gently prised the book free. “Here.” He handed it back, pointing to Fingon’s name at the top of several branches from Fingolfin and Anairë. “There you are, just like you said.”

Fingon stared. There they were: his family. “So,” he stumbled out after a moment to process, “Elrond, in the movie, he was a real person – my great nephew.” 

Clint shrugged. “Looks like.”

For the first time since Aragorn’s bad Sindarin, Fingon allowed himself a smile. “Glad Turno at least managed to keep the family line going, for all the good the Doom did us. But then there’s this Gil-galad… no, that can’t be right.”

“What?”

Fingon frowned. “Says here that he was my son.”

“He must have inherited the crown from you when you died,” Clint reasoned, because how was he to know?

Fingon shook his head. “No, he can’t have, because I didn’t  _ have _ a son.” He slammed the book shut and dropped his head forward with a groan. “Maedhros, if I ever get back there, I am going to  _ kill _ you.”


	3. "This isn't a back alley, Steve. It's a war!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now,” Maedhros continued, dripping menace, “let me tell you the situation as I see it. I am a general in this war. This is my war. We are four battles in and, after grievous losses, our time has come. We can win – it's within reach, after centuries of waiting and losses. I orchestrate a union of Elves, Dwarves and Men to fight against the Dark Lord.”
> 
> Bucky didn’t think it was very nice to refer to the French as Dwarves, but then again – Elves? Maedhros couldn’t be talking about the mythical creatures – they were tiny, for a start, and – 
> 
> He shook his head. He was clearly somewhere in Scandinavia called Elfland or something.

_ Beleriand, First Age 455 _

Bucky’s ears were ringing and no use at all when he first woke up, so his nose was the first thing to realise he was in a field hospital. The place had that sickeningly familiar reek to it, of burning, of charred meat, of loose shit and old mud and moist canvas and used, useless antiseptic. He tried to open his eyes, but there seemed to be some kind of bandage across his face and only one of them worked. Even then, the light that came hammering in through his good eye was painful enough to fill his head with Nazi boots, goose-stepping through his brain. He couldn't move his legs but he could wiggle his toes and, though everything groaned in pain, the sharp yanking in his side was particularly pronounced every time he took a breath. 

Well, fuck. 

He scrabbled through the sluggish dregs of his memory for an explanation of how he'd got wherever  _ here _ was. It came to him like the slap in the face of an Arctic gale.

The Howlies. A mission. A train. A fight. He and Steve, side by side. Explosions. The sudden heart-stopping lightness of frozen, empty air beneath his feet. Steve’s hand just in front of his face – miles away,  _ miles _ . The shriek of failed bolts.

Snow, moving somehow – upwards? Wind’s bitter fingers snatching the scream from his tongue.

Terminal velocity.

_ Like bugs on a windshield. _

So he’d fallen out of a moving freight train and into a bottomless Alpine ravine. Shit, that rail line had to’ve been nearly a thousand feet up. That at least explained how he'd wound up feeling like his ass had been slammed through his face at speed – Zola really had given him the good drugs during their friendly little torture session if a fall like that hadn't killed him.

He took a minute to gather himself by staring with his one eye at the ceiling. It was canvas, ripped and spattered with a constellation of tiny scorch-marks like a thousand privates had stubbed their smokes out there. The sky on the flip-side was a sullen, ashy grey, but at least it wasn't raining – there'd be a stream of water coming down right into his face if it were.

Hang fire! Raining? 

It was warm enough that he was in a flimsy, holey tent and he couldn't see his breath; neither was he shivering underneath whatever tissue-thin covering rustled between him and the hospital’s stench. If he were still in the Alps then it oughta be snowing and he oughta be nursing a nasty case of frostbite. So where the fuck  _ was  _ he?

The ringing in his ears had stuttered out to a low hum in the background. Over it he could tell that there was quiet around him, with just a few distant bustling sounds to suggest activity further afield. For a field hospital, that was mighty suspicious. He tilted his head, cringing through the thumping nausea it provoked, to better check out the joint. 

The bed he was in was off to one side, in a kind of annexe off the larger tent. Through a flap in the canvas he could see a few pallet-style beds same as he was probably laid out on, a few bodies lying still under sheets, but little activity. That in itself was freaky enough – they must be a long way from any actual battle action, and how badly injured  _ were _ those guys out there? – but that wasn't even the creepiest part.

No, the creepiest part was definitely the man watching him from a hunkered-down stoop on a stool.

Bucky had never seen a fella like him – he had to’ve been abandoned in a cave since the last damned war, he was so haggard and unkempt. He had hair that, under the filth, looked to be the copper you usually saw painted on a Viking, straggling loose in tails below his shoulders and looking like it hadn’t seen a comb since it was last cut to army regs. Whatever shrapnel had strafed his razor-boned face had left him with some mean scarring and an even meaner glower. He was thin – hell, they all were these days, but Bucky’d lived through the Depression and knew how to tell K-ration malnutrition from that bone-deep hollowness when he saw it. It took years to get that caved-in fragility around the eyes.

And, to top it all off, he was wearing an honest-to-God  _ cape _ . Where were they, Christforsaken Transylvania now?

The man’s fingers twitched where he'd folded his arms across his chest. Bucky looked down and – yeah, he was right, this guy must be from the last war. That other hand had been missing a long damn time. Between his father’s generation and his compatriots, he'd seen enough amputations to know how long it took for that kind of scar to silver and fade. 

When he looked up again, the man’s expression hadn’t changed. Bucky opened his mouth, but the only thing to emerge was a cough that felt like a mouthful of sand and made his ribs explode in pain. He barely noticed the man rolling his eyes as he got to his feet and loomed silently up to the bed.

Bucky gasped and tensed as the man leaned over him, but it just earned him a tired look and then there was something at his lips, wet and cool which he slurped at desperately until it wetted down the sand in his mouth and he could breathe a little easier. 

He blinked – well, winked – at the man gratefully, who just nodded and set the wooden cup down somewhere out of sight. Bucky noticed that he had a strip of fabric knotted around his only wrist, slivers of silver and bright blue just visible through whatever filth stained it, and wondered idly who had tied it there.

“Man le?” said the man suddenly. “Man le carel sí?” He had a strange, cracked voice, and the words sounded kinda like Welsh. Bucky shook his head, then cleared his throat.

“English?” he suggested, his own voice just as rusty. It earned him a frown.

“Ma quetil i lambe Quenya?”

Bucky shook his head again. “Français?” 

“Westron?” said the man. 

“Deutsch?” tried Bucky, thankful when there was no response to that one. 

“Khuzdul?” 

“Italiano?”

“Morghashnum?” That last one just sounded ugly, halfway between a sneeze and a retch. Bucky sighed.

“Sorry, pal, I really don’t get a word you’re sayin’.”

“Oh.” The man looked as though he were just keeping from curling his lip, or maybe he’d just realised Bucky smelt bad. Either was possible. “Well why didn’t you say you spoke Westron when I asked?”

“Westron?” Bucky frowned. “You mean English, right?”

The man gave him a funny look. "You have a head injury," he said, as though that explained everything. "Amongst other more minor things." His English was strangely accented, lilting and with a gentle stretch about the vowels that was just shy of Scandinavian.

Bucky knew his arm, both ankles and a couple of ribs were broken. Something about the man's ravaged face and lopsided demeanour and the wild, overbright glint in his eye said his concept of a minor injury was beyond what most people could stomach.

“Where am I? How did I get here?”

“You're in the healing tent, about five miles east of Estolad. We found you amongst the bodies, searching for –" He cut himself off, swallowed hard, “– someone else.”

“– bodies?” The air in Bucky’s lungs felt like it had solidified. “What do you mean – where’s Steve – Captain Rogers, the rest of my company?”

“Everyone around you had fallen. Your whole guard. You were the only one we found alive.” The man took a long, deep breath through his nose. Time stuttered. Then, softly on an unsteady exhale, “You should be dead."

_ I know, _ thought Bucky, closing his good eye.  _ But that’s war, son.  _ He drew a breath of his own, shallow and shuddering only in part due to his broken ribs. The man stayed quiet, but as an ache swelled through Bucky’s insides that had nothing to do with physical impact, he got the impression that the man was not so much respecting Bucky's private grief as joining it.

Bucky hadn't the faintest idea how Steve and The Howlies had ended up dead. If Zola’s bastardised serum had protected Bucky in that fall then Steve's sure as hell should've – but then, that was luck for you, and all it would've taken was a rock in the wrong place, impact at the wrong angle or, even simpler, a bullet beforehand. Bucky closed his teeth savagely on the inside of his cheek and shifted in a way that jostled his splinted arm into his injured side. The sweet bloom of pain that flourished shoved the image of Steve's broken body to the darker recesses of his brain. He wouldn't – he  _ couldn't,  _ not when he still didn't know – 

“Lammoth Plains?” he croaked. “Where's that?” They'd done a good recce on the area around the Alpine transit line. Nothing on the map had borne that name – or indeed, represented a plain. 

The man cocked his head. “Your head injury must be worse than we first thought. Hithlum, North Beleriand.”

Bucky stared at him blankly.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Middle-earth?”

Bucky let his head sink back into the blanket underneath him. It hurt far less than it should have done with a serious head injury. “Never heard of it. Can you show me a map, or are you holding me captive?”

The man’s lips made a strange twist that could almost have been a smirk.

“Ought we to be?”

Bucky closed his eyes. “I’d prefer if you didn’t. Wasn’t much fun the last time someone did.”

There was a noise that conveyed, if not interest, then at least agreement. Up close, those scars didn’t actually look anything like shrapnel wounds. Bucky decided he didn’t want to know where they’d come from.

"Sorry, pal – what did you say your name was?"

The man gave him another funny look and held out his right arm then, giving Bucky a close-up of what looked to be a real hack-job hand amputation. “Maedhros Fëanorion, abdicated High King of the Ñoldor and leader of the Dispossessed. I’ll come back later when you remember where Beleriand is.”

And he left. Bucky watched him go, crackling like a flame through the eerie silence of the tent, and shivered.

Maedhros Fëanorion. High King. Beleriand.

Bucky decided he’d fallen off the train and into a different war entirely.   
  


✵ ✪ ✵   
  


Either the medic who attended him couldn’t speak English – or whatever they called the language he’d found in common with Maedhros – or she’d been instructed to pretend she didn’t. Maedhros seemed like the kind of person who could, and would, command something like that. Bucky tried several times to start a conversation as she examined his splinted limbs and fingered gently at his side. It only earned him a frown and a shake of her head, then a further silence until she seemed satisfied with his progress and left.

Bucky couldn’t help notice that she hadn’t examined his head.

Beyond a generic throbbing headache, he couldn’t pinpoint anything suggesting a head injury. He’d used his good hand to probe at the bandages swathing most of his upper skull, his ears and his right eye, gingerly at first, but then with more pressure until he was certain there was no specific wound underneath. Even the headache faded as the day wore on, especially after an assistant had come by to feed him a bowl of thin broth. Where the medic had been all distant efficiency brought from experience, this fellow looked young and traumatised. He had that blank stare Bucky had seen in the tender young privates, that spoke of someone going through the motions because it was the only thing stopping their mind splintering into a world of horrors. Bucky didn’t even try to start a conversation this time, and simply swallowed his broth in silence. Afterwards he dozed in fits and nervous, painful starts, interspersed with vivid dreams of Steve and the Howlies’ dead bodies piled at his feet. By the time he awoke, feeling twitchy and out-of-sorts, it was to a dusk-dimmed tent and a shadow back at the annexe entrance.

“Fëanorion,” he greeted the man, hoping he’d got the pronunciation correct. His efforts just earned him a huffy sigh.

“Don’t call me that. There are six of us – it’ll just confuse things. Maedhros is fine.” Maedhros stalked closer, somehow making no noise despite his heavy boots and the wet ground underfoot. “And what about you – can you remember your own name yet?”

“I never forgot it,” Bucky shot back. This loony situation was starting to razzle his nerves and he wanted answers. “It’s just you never asked. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry Regiment, New York Army National Guard, and of the Howling Commandos of the Western Allies.”

Maedhros’ eyebrows lifted and he made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “Very well. And which of those is your name?”

“Call me Barnes,” Bucky conceded. “I’m gonna hazard a guess that there ain’t another one around here.”

“Correct.” Maedhros settled lightly upon the stool close to the bed. He leaned forwards and as his elbows settled upon his knees his demeanour shifted. The temperature in the tent dropped by several degrees.

“Now, what I want to know is,” he continued, cocking his head and fixing Bucky with a gaze the same icy grey as the clouds he’d fallen through, “who are the Western Allies, and what are they doing in the middle of  _ my _ war?”

Bucky looked at him with all the suspicion a one-eyed man could muster. “Last I heard, anyone who ain’t a Nazi or a Jap,” he said slowly, “unless you’ve got even more news for me? Lemme guess, the Eskimos have invaded Canada now? The polar bear army is on the march?” The look he received was blank and weary, so he sighed and elaborated.

“Look. I’m a soldier – it’s the Second World War, damned near everyone is. This ass called Hitler, he’s invading Europe and committing genocide. On the other side of the world, Japan’s tryin’ to do the same thing to China. The Western Allies – that's the US, the Brits, the French, the Chinese, the Russians – we’re all trying to  _ stop _ this happening. I know you look like you’ve been living in a cave since World War One, but  _ please _ tell me this is ringing at least one tiny little bell for you, cos it’s pretty big news pretty much  _ everywhere _ and I’m getting mighty sick of you speaking in tongues, so I’d really appreciate it if you told me what the hell’s goin’ on.”

For an eerily long time, Maedhros didn’t move. It was only as Bucky’s stomach was starting to jitter like jazz that Maedhros leaned in even closer, his left hand cupped around his right wrist and his eyes steely.

“I regret to inform you,” he said softly, “that you have failed to ring even one tiny little bell on my behalf.” He sat up suddenly, so quickly that Bucky caught his breath and tried not to let his startle show. 

“Now,” he continued, dripping menace, “let me tell you the situation as I see it. I am a general in this war. This is  _ my _ war. We are four battles in and, after grievous losses, our time has come. We can win – it's within reach, after centuries of waiting and losses. I orchestrate a union of Elves, Dwarves and Men to fight against the Dark Lord.”

Bucky didn’t think it was very nice to refer to the French as Dwarves, but then again –  _ Elves? _ Maedhros couldn’t be talking about the mythical creatures – they were tiny, for a start, and – 

He shook his head. He was clearly somewhere in Scandinavia called Elfland or something. 

“It's a cert,” Maedhros was saying, “it's all going in our favour, until we realise there's a traitor in our ranks, trusted by my  _ arch-fool  _ of a brother. And then…” He simmered off, his eyes glowing weird and icy-cold, and his voice was lower and so much darker when he spoke next.

“We lost. I lost. Everything I had worth losing, I have lost. Our High King – my dearest cousin, to whom I owe my life – is dead. Eight-tenths of our army is dead. Our lands are ravaged and our homes raped by Morgoth’s forces. Anyone who might be a leader now is either dead or in the wind, and anyone with anything left to fight for is in this very camp. And yet, on the battlefield in the very place we saw the High King’s body pounded into the mud, we find  _ you _ . So tell me, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the Western Allies, tell me why I find your presence here suspicious.”

“I dunno what to tell you, pal,” Bucky said, spreading his good hand wide. “I'd be suspicious as all get-out in your place, too. But all I've got is the truth, and that truth is that I ain't no spook and I’ve never heard of these people. I don't know what you're fighting for or why. I don't know where on Earth, uh –” He fumbled for the name, “Bleh-riand is. I don't know – I dunno why my friends are dead and I'm not, I… Last I knew, I was falling a thousand feet off a train in the mountains and I'm a dead man, and then I wake up here. I don't know where I am, you’ve already said that anyone who might is dead – and besides, even if I did know where I was, both my legs are broken and I'm unarmed. I ain't exactly a threat to you.”

Though he’d deliberately let his grief colour his words, for the time being, it was all true enough. Maedhros’ other problems were evident; if Bucky could at least convince him he wasn't a threat, then he might turn his focus elsewhere and Bucky could figure out how to escape once he could walk again.

Maedhros looked away. He ran his only hand through his hair without so much as a flinch when the great jewelled ring on his index finger snagged in one of the tangles. Then he took a deep breath and loosened his lopsided shoulders by what looked like sheer force of will. 

“You’re quite right; you’re injured,” he said softly, to Bucky's great surprise. “I meant to apologise earlier for the lack of pain medication. I’m afraid there are so many injured and much worse-off than you – we simply cannot spare it.”

Bucky shrugged and said honestly, “I’ve had worse with less comfort. It’s bearable. Besides, I’m pretty sure I don’t actually have a head injury.”

“Hmm,” said Maedhros, noncommittally. “What did the healer say?”

“She didn’t speak English,” Bucky retorted. “Or Westron, or whatever it is you call it.”

“That’s because she’s an Elf, and Elves speak Elvish.” Maedhros’ eyes narrowed. “Except, apparently, for you.”

Bucky stared at Maedhros like his missing right hand had just grown back in as a second head. “I’m not an Elf. I’d never even  _ met _ an Elf until I woke up here and found you staring at me like a creep.”

“Well, you certainly have the manners of a Dwarf raised by wolves,” Maedhros sniffed, “but there is plenty to suggest you’re wrong. Let’s take a look, shall we?” He gestured to Bucky’s head. “Go on, remove the dressing if you’re so certain you have no head injury.”

“How is looking at my noggin gonna tell you if I come from Elfland?” Bucky mused, more to himself than anything, but Maedhros snorted in what could almost have been black amusement.

“Elfland!” He shook his head. “Valar, you must be severely concussed still. No, Barnes, when I say we’re Elves, I mean that we are a species similar to but distinct from Men.” 

Bucky eyed him with suspicion. He didn’t like the way that was phrased. “Right. Yeah, whatever you say.” They had to clear this one up before it got out of hand. He groped at the bandages with his good hand, feeling around for the end that he eventually found tucked under his left ear.

“I dunno what you’re expecting to find under here, pal,” he said as he unwound the bandage from his face. “It ain’t like I’ve got an  _ E _ for  _ Elf _ stamped on my forehead or nothin’ – there!” He reached the end of the linen and cast it aside on the bed. “Happy? Seen what you wanted?”

He looked up, and shut his mouth with a click of his teeth. Maedhros was staring at him as one might a familiar ghost, his jaw tight and his shoulders hunched. His eyes were wide and unhappy and his throat worked a couple of times before he spoke in a low, shaking voice.

“There.” He gestured sharply with a trembling hand. “Your ears. Elven, like mine, like everyone else you'll meet here.”

He turned away, shoving his hair back again as he did so, though it looked more like a nervous tic than a deliberate gesture. Nonetheless, it gave Bucky a view of his ears: curving up to pointed tips, just like his and Steve’s had become after the serum.

“You've had the serum too?” Bucky asked, scrabbling to sit more upright and get a better look, but Maedhros had his back to Bucky now and didn't seem to hear.

“I'll send the healer to rebandage your head,” he grunted instead, and swept out.   
  


✵ ✪ ✵   
  


The medic returned shortly afterwards. She examined Bucky's head in silence – there did in fact appear to be some blood dried onto the old bandage and crusted into his hair just north of his temple, but the absence of soreness made Bucky suspect whether the blood was even his.

He protested when the medic picked up the bandage again and tried to reapply it. 

“No, I don't need it.” He tapped one finger against his head. “Not hurt, see?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Heriach. Hîr nín cant,”  she said firmly. 

Bucky rolled his eyes and sighed as gustily as his ribs would allow. “Ain't you learned that I don't understand you yet?”

“It is not her fault that you don't speak our language,” said a silky voice from the annexe opening. Bucky jerked his head up and saw a dark-haired man standing in Maedhros’ usual place. He had a similar look about him, all angular features and sharp planes and quick-bright eyes, but where Maedhros was unkempt with a frenetic weary energy, like life had passed him around too much, this man was sleekly groomed and gave off an agile, knowing air that spoke of precision control.

The man said something to the medic in their language that prompted her to dip a curtsey and leave, passing him the bandage on her way out. He folded it neatly into a pile, which he placed on the foot of the bed as he approached. Bucky couldn't help but notice it was aligned perfectly square with the corners of the pallet. 

He eyed the visitor, who had settled into a pose partway between parade rest and a philosopher's contemplation: one hand against his chin, the other tucked neatly into the small of his back.

“Sergeant James Barnes,” Bucky offered after a moment. The man inclined his head.

“I know.” He stared at Bucky for a moment longer, then narrowed his eyes as though reaching a decision and lifted his chin. “You've quite put the wind up Nelyo. I wanted to come and see for myself.”

“See what?” Bucky fairly snarled. “Who is Nelyo? I'm not some kind of freak show to be gawped at, y’know.”

“Oh, but I think you'll find that you are.” The man cocked his head. “My name is Curufin Fëanorion. Nelyo is my brother; he has probably introduced himself as Maedhros. I suspect he hasn't told you that you are the spitting image of our dead cousin, has he?”

Of course – because why wouldn’t this get any weirder? Bucky huffed a laugh that went nowhere near his eyes. 

“Nope – he didn’t exactly tell me a whole lot, besides that he’s losing a war and I’m an Elf.”

“Oh,  _ he’s _ losing the war, is he?” Curufin scoffed. “We’ll have to have words about that later.” His expression did something that looked like the mental equivalent of filing that thought away on a note card. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, and deadly in the way of a big cat stalking its prey.

“He is right about one thing, though. You are an uncanny likeness to Fingon.” A pause; a step closer to the pounce. “How peculiar that you should be found alive on the very spot he died. No wonder Nelyo wanted to keep your face covered.”

“Hang on a damned minute.” Bucky scrabbled himself upright. “So you were pretending I had a head injury so you could keep my face covered?”

Curufin laughed and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not me personally, no. Such an unrefined idea, more trouble than it's worth. No, if I had my way, you'd be headless on the battlefield with your bones picked clean by the scavengers by now, but dear Nelyo always had something of a soft spot for this particular cousin, so here we are.” A shrug. “Besides, you are a puzzle. Fortunately for you, I like puzzles.”

“Oh good,” Bucky said wearily. His head was starting to spin with all this craziness. He could feel Curufin’s eyes on him, already trying to piece him together, and he waited warily for the impending question.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.” 

“Nonsense. You’re fully grown.” He didn’t give Bucky time to parse that comment. “When were you born?”

“1917."

Curufin arched an eyebrow. “Really. What era?”

“Er…  _ Anno Domini _ ?”

“No,” tsked Curufin, “I mean Years of the Trees? It must be – you cannot be older than we are.”

Bucky squinted a little. If he had to guess, he’d have put both Curufin and Maedhros in their early twenties. “Whaddya mean? I was born 1917 AD, The Year of our Lord – God.”

“No such thing,” Curufin scoffed. “The gods have abandoned us. The only one worth mentioning is the one we’re fighting.”

Bucky sighed, sensing another imminent confusion. “Okay, well, let’s discuss religion another time. Say, for the sake of argument, I think it’s 1945 in the Year of our Lord. You –” he gestured encouragingly to Curufin, “– are going to tell me that I’m wrong, and the year is in fact…”

“472 in the Years of the Sun,” Curufin finished.

“Ace.” Bucky sank back down against the pallet, suddenly feeling very tired. “Even time’s all wacky here.”

“Mmm.” Curufin didn’t sound like he cared. “You speak most strangely. Where are you from?”

“Brooklyn, New York.”

The man sniffed. “Never heard of it.”

“Right back atcha, buddy,” Bucky retorted. “I ain’t never heard of Beleriand, neither.”

“Well, you’re sitting in it, so you had better familiarise yourself.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Buddy.”   
  


✵ ✪ ✵   
  


Bucky had used to think Nazis were bad. Turned out, he'd never met Orcs. 

His first encounter with one was heralded by a scream from the main wing of the hospital tent. Bucky had been dozing, high on something strange they’d managed to scrounge together for the pain and under the impression that the screams outside were all inside his head, but this was close enough to jerk him awake. 

He pushed himself up on his elbow for a better view. There was a metallic singing noise and a loud shout of rage from someone out of view, and then the ugliest head Bucky had ever seen came rolling through the mud and thudded to a stop against his pallet. 

“What the fuck,” he breathed, scrambling upright wide-eyed and gape-mawed. The face on the floor slackened as its muscles finally stopped twitching. The eyes were half-open, enough that Bucky could tell the iris and sclera were all the same jaundiced yellow. The skin of the creature – because it had to be a creature; this was no Man or Elf – was mottled grey, pockmarked and scarred and sallow in a way Bucky recognised from too little daylight. Its nose-tip was hooked downwards, nostrils pulling up into a permanent sneer. The teeth in its gaping mouth were on their way to being fangs, but broken and pointed and wonky enough that it looked to be more by intent than design. 

Every horrible thing about it looked deliberately made. 

A pale, white-haired figure prowled over from the entrance, carrying an honest-to-God  _ sword  _ dripping with something black and viscous. Bucky wrenched his eyes away from the monstrosity on the floor and their eyes met.

“Why didn't you use a gun, pal?”

The man frowned even more deeply, if that were possible. “What in Arda is a gun,” he grunted. It wasn't a question. Then, without further comment, he stooped to pick up the head by a hank of ragged hair and strode away.   
  


✵ ✪ ✵   
  


Maedhros either didn’t need sleep or wasn’t able to, because he was back on his stool when Bucky shuddered awake in the night after a fractured dream involving slavering monsters and rolling heads.

Bucky didn’t bother with the niceties this time.

“Who was that guy, with the white hair, and what the hell was that thing he beheaded?”

“My brother Celegorm.” Maedhros sat up straight from where he’d had his elbows propped on his knees, and rolled his shoulders like he’d been there a while. “He’s a bit peculiar. You’ll get used to him.”

“You ain’t kidding there,” Bucky muttered, thinking on the lack of similarity between Maedhros’ emotion-coloured logic, Curufin’s cool disdain and Celegorm’s feral prowess. “How many brothers do you have?”

Maedhros gave a noncommittal shrug. “Too many, sometimes. But fewer than I used to. That was an Orc Celegorm beheaded. Let me guess: you don’t have them where you come from either?”

“No, only Nazis.”

Maedhros’ eyebrows made the barest twitch. Bucky was starting to learn his tells; this one meant he was interested.

“They’re humans, too. Just with screwed-up ideals that got the whole damn world stuck into a war.”

“Ah.” Maedhros’ face did something self-deprecating. “Yes, idealism can get one into an awful lot of trouble.” He fell silent, and seemed to be descending into one of his moods again, so Bucky prompted,

“So – Orcs?”

Maedhros’ ears twitched, almost like a flinch. “Used to be Elves,” he rasped quietly. “Our Enemy took them and –  _ twisted _ them, until they bent to his evil and didn’t know good any more. They now form the bulk of his army, and they have been raiding the area since we lost the battle.”

Bucky swallowed, his mouth suddenly gone dry. “Christ. So what happens now?”

“Do you mean in general, or to you specifically?”

“Both.”

“We are currently packing up camp and retreating to our stronghold in the South, where it’s safer.”

“And to me?”

Maedhros regarded him coolly. “You are either going to become my biggest problem,” he said after a moment, “or my biggest solution. But whichever it turns out to be, you’re coming with us.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “So I  _ am _ being held captive then.” It earned him a scowl and the kind of eyeroll one might give a shellshocked idiot.

“If you would rather we left you in unfamiliar country with enemy parties running riot, then please feel free to run away as soon as your legs have healed. Goodness knows we could do without one more mouth to feed. I would, however, recommend that you don't. Even death at the enemy's hand is rarely swift and never enjoyable. I promise you'll have a far better time if you stay with us, even if you do consider yourself captive.”

Something in his voice suggested first-hand experience. Bucky again found himself wondering about those scars and sank his head back into the pallet. “Fine,” he conceded. Then, as an afterthought, “And, uh, thank you, I guess.”

Maedhros grunted. “So gracious. You’re welcome.” There was a thud as a little book landed at Bucky’s feet. “Since you’re probably going to with us for a while, why don’t you try learning our language?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In order, Maedhros tries speaking Sindarin, Quenya, Westron/Common Tongue/English, Dwarvish and the Black Speech. Sindarin and Quenya are both types of Elvish, originally spoken by two different factions of Elves. Maedhros’ faction spoke Quenya, but this was banned after some murderous behaviour, so Sindarin is now the common Elvish tongue.
> 
> 2\. Fun fact: Tolkien based Sindarin on Welsh and Quenya on Finnish.
> 
> 3\. “Heriach. Hîr nín cant” – “You must. My lord has commanded it.”
> 
> 4\. I subscribe to the fanon that Celegorm the Fair is actually albino. It makes my science brain feel a lot happier about the Fëanorian genetics.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've had a comment or two about Tolkien fighting Hitler in The Battle of the Somme (mentioned in the tags). That is actually one part of the story I'm _not_ making up - [they fought on opposite sides in the Somme during WWI](http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/battle-of-the-somme-centenary-facts-adolf-hitler-jrr-tolkien-siegfried-sassooon-ralph-vaughan-a7109056.html).


End file.
